


War Wound

by SoulfireInc



Series: Sherlock Fanfiction [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abduction, Case, Gen, Multi, Post Reichenbach, Sherlock - Freeform, Sherlock!Whump, Whump, army doctor, kidnap, old comrade, season three
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-29
Updated: 2013-11-29
Packaged: 2018-01-02 23:23:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1062890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoulfireInc/pseuds/SoulfireInc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set sometime after Sherlock's return, before John's wedding to Mary Mortsan. An old comrade of John's arrives at 221B Baker St, scared and desperate for the consulting detective's help. Perhaps, had Sherlock known the consequences he and John would suffer as a result of this surprise encounter, he never would have accepted the case ...</p><p>[Written before season three aired.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	War Wound

            John awoke to the sound of gunfire.

            In an instant he had gone from soundly asleep to fully alert, one hand already scrambling for the first drawer of his nightstand, searching for his gun. Before he could so much as open the drawer however, he heard the exasperated call of Sherlock Holmes.

            “BORED!”

Another gunshot.

            Cursing under his breath, John got to his feet, massaging his chest absent-mindedly as his heart rate returned to normal. Nothing like a nice, relaxed start to the day.

            He dressed quickly and went downstairs to the firing range. Sherlock was wearing his blue dressing gown and was firing the almost empty gun into a mannequin tied to a chair by the wall. John entered warily.

            “Having fun?” he asked sarcastically. Sherlock shot him a look of deepest irony and flung himself down into his armchair.

            “I’m BORED,” he repeated. “I need a case, John. A _case_!”

            John rolled his eyes and took a moment to check his temper.

            “How about the case of the murdered violinist?”

            Sherlock’s head whipped around. “What?” he snapped, his attention utterly focused on John, who had to stifle a grin. “What murder? When did this happen? Have you talked to Lestrade?”

            John gave him a look, glancing at the violin resting beside the armchair. Understanding, Sherlock resumed his defeated posture, mumbling something about ‘not funny’ and ‘cruel’. John chuckled.

            He’d learnt how to handle Sherlock when he was in one of his moods, for the most part. The most important thing to do was to hide the guns, but clearly that hadn’t worked this time.

            Ignoring his flatmate’s groans and outbursts of woe, John set about getting his breakfast. He was in a surprisingly good mood, considering his unpleasant awakening. He pondered its source as he spread jam on his toast. He would be seeing Mary today - that never failed to lift his spirits.

            He hummed idly to himself as he poured his tea. As he turned toward the table, mug and plate in his hands, he saw something flash past his head, mere inches in front of his nose. He jerked backwards reflexively, tea slopping out of the mug over his hand in the sudden movement, as his head followed the thing’s flight. He recognised it as it quivered in the fridge. Sherlock’s knife. He looked around in time to see Sherlock fling himself around toward the window.

            “Do you mind?!” John’s good mood was evaporating. “That nearly hit me!”

            “Nearly never did anything, John,” Sherlock muttered, staring dejectedly out onto the quiet, tragically boring Baker Street.

            Deciding not to pursue the matter - now - John shook his head and went to sit down in his chair to eat, as the kitchen table was, as usual, covered in Sherlock’s equipment.

            Sherlock groaned. Loudly.

            “Oh, give it a rest, would you, Sherlock?” John said exasperatedly. “It’s not even nine.”

            Sherlock twisted round to face John, his mouth open with a ready retort. It didn’t come. Instead, he sat down, quite calmly this time, and said quietly, “Alright.”

            John looked up at him, quietly amazed. He was gazing out the window again, and John saw something unfamiliar in his friend’s features. A slight, sad, smile and a … was it a wistful expression?

            “Thank you.” He said, somewhat uncertainly. It took another few seconds of disbelief before John understood. This was another of the ‘little apologies’, as he called them. Since coming back from … when he was away, Sherlock had been trying, really trying to make it up to John. Every now and then he’d make some small effort, like this silence now, to please John. It was heartwarming.

            It was bizarre.

            Still, John wasn’t about to look this particular gift horse too closely in the mouth. He pulled today’s paper closer to him, and settled down to read the headlines.

            He’d barely gotten halfway down the first page when the doorbell rang - one short, sharp blast. Both men’s heads came up at the same instant. They looked at each other, Sherlock’s face suddenly full of excitement. They spoke together,

            “Client!”

            Sherlock swept out of the room, calling over his shoulder for John to let them in while he dressed. Inwardly rolling his eyes, and setting aside his tea and toast, John acquiesced.

            He opened the black front door, and was surprised to recognise the man standing there.

            “John!” the man exclaimed in obvious relief. “John Watson, thank God.”

            The man extended a hand. John hesitated for a moment, trying to recall the man’s name, then took it.

            “Lieutenant Rogers! My god, it’s been years. It’s good to see you.”

            “You too, sir. Do you mind if I …?” He gestured awkwardly to the hallway behind John.

            “Oh, yes, of course. Come in, please.” He stepped aside to allow the nervous man room to enter, which he did at once, furtively looking around the street before doing so.

            John lead him up to the flat, hiding is curiosity as best he could. He hadn’t seen Rogers since before he left Afghanistan. What on earth would he want now? And why was he so agitated?

            “Captain Watson,” he began, falling back on the title by which he had come to know John. “I need your help. And your flatmate’s.”

            Gesturing to an armchair, John sat down. “John, please. Sherlock will be in shortly.” He paused, watching the lieutenant squirm slightly in the chair. “What’s wrong, Lieutenant?”

            Rogers looked up, his face filled with a wild desperation. “Your - your flatmate … is he -“

            “Is he what?” Sherlock asked as he swept into the room, dressed as immaculately as ever.

            Rogers looked taken aback for a moment, but continued boldly, directing his comment to John. “Is he as good as they say?”

            “Yes.” John and Sherlock replied in unison.

            The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched in a small smile as he sat down at his desk, facing his client.

            “So, Lieutenant, is it? What can I do for you?” He rested his chin on the tips of his steepled fingers.

            The lieutenant glanced around before replying, and John marveled at the change in him. When he’d known Rogers, he’d been one of the most professional soldiers in the platoon, always quietly self-assured, always calm, even in a hail of gunfire. Now he was fidgeting and sweating, clearly uncomfortable.

            “My … Capt - John. Do you remember Lieutenant Barry Quinn?”

            John thought for a moment before answering. “Mm, vaguely. He was your mate, wasn’t he?”

            Rogers nodded. “Still is. My best mate. And … And he’s missing, sir.”

            Sherlock waited. “And?”

            Rogers stared at him. “And what? He’s missing and I want you to find him!”

            Sherlock took a deep breath, and John sat back in his chair, knowing what was coming.

            “You say he’s missing yet you offer no evidence to support that, except your own word. You haven’t told me how long he’s been missing, why he’s missing, or anything you’ve done to find him. Don’t waste my time, Lieutenant; if you want my help I need the facts, and I’ll need them quickly. If you don’t have them, leave. I suggest you try Scotland Yard, they’re moderately useful.”

            Silence.

            “Mr. Holmes,” Rogers began, his voice calmer now. “Barry - Lieutenant Quinn - he’s my best mate. We were meant to meet up two days ago for a drink, like we do every week. He never showed.”

            “So?”

            “So, he’s Barry!” Rogers caught himself, taking a deep breath. “He’s like all of us army lads. Punctual. If he said he’d be somewhere at seven, you can be damn sure he will be - on the dot. He’s never late. And he’s never missed a night out with me without at least letting me know.

            “I called him, and he didn’t answer - that’s not like him either. I called his landlady, and she said he’d already gone out. I knew something was wrong.” Rogers looked down at his hands as he continued.

            “I went looking for him, but I never found him. I went to the police at nine that night, and reported him missing. They wouldn’t do anything.” Anger began to colour his tone. “Said he had to be MIA for at least twenty-four hours before he could be considered missing. They said there was no motive, either. Barry’s not well off, he’s just … a normal bloke.”

            “And I take it you waited for the police to intervene and have now given up all hope of them being in any way helpful.” Sherlock was as tactful as ever.

            Rogers nodded, not making eye contact.

            “And what happened this morning?”

            Rogers looked up, his mouth open, his expression suspicious. John leant forward, hoping to avert the question he knew was coming, but he was too late.

            “Don’t ask-”

            “How did you know?”

            John rolled his eyes as Sherlock smirked and drew a quick breath.

            “The Oyster Card poking out of your breast pocket,” he began, nodding to the small white triangle of plastic visible against the dark brown overcoat. “Hastily replaced, so clearly you used it in a hurry. The dark stain at your hip; a mixture of ink residue and smoke from the Underground, builds up on the walls over time - they never bother to clean the walls down there - rubbed off on your coat as you squeezed around a corner, jogging I’d say, judging by the spread. Clearly there were other people – commuters – moving too slowly for you so you brushed past. It’s,” he checked his watch. “Ten past nine. An army man, such as yourself, has a strict sleeping routine bored into you during your training; you wake up at the same time every day – half past seven I’d guess. Though last night you didn’t sleep well, a nightmare about Quinn perhaps, there are bags under your eyes. So, sometime between half past seven and eighty fifty this morning – Tube’s a fifteen minute walk away, but you clearly jogged it, if not ran – something must have happened to provoke you to visit an old comrade you’ve made no attempt to stay in touch with since leaving Afghanistan and his detective flatmate, so, as I said: what happened this morning?

            Rogers glanced at John, disbelief etched onto his face. John smiled humourlessly and shrugged. Rogers took a deep breath before speaking. “I, eh, I got an email.” He gulped. “An email from Barry’s abductors. It was a video …” His voice trailed off at the memory.

            Sherlock leant forward in his chair, his interest piqued. His bright eyes seeming to stare right through the man he studied. John mirrored the action unconsciously, his face concerned.

            “What was in the video, Lieutenant?” Sherlock’s voice was low and serious. John fought the urge to hit him - he was enjoying this.

            “It was … Barry,” Rogers continued, his voice barely more than a whisper, his eyes, staring blankly at the floor, were filled with a quiet horror. “He was … they were …”

            “Torturing him?” Sherlock offered.

            Rogers looked up and nodded, his eyes haunted.

            “Any demands?”

            Rogers shook his head, unable to speak as hopelessness filled him.

            Sherlock leant back, his fingertips coming together once more.

            “Just a taunt, then? No other discernable purpose?”

            Rogers nodded.

            “I’ll need to see the video.”

            Rogers nodded again: he’d expected as much. Swallowing hard, he found his voice.

            “So you’ll help me, then?”

            Sherlock stood, buttoning his jacket. “Yes, I think so. Clearly there’s more to this than a simple kidnapping, and I’m not ruinously busy at the moment …”

            He swept over to the couch, where John’s laptop lay. He scooped it up, opened it and keyed in the password. John scowled.

            “Show me the email,” Sherlock said, offering the laptop to Rogers.

            Reluctantly, he keyed in his email address and retrieved the hated email. He stood up then, and headed for the door.

            “I … I can’t watch it again. I’ll … wait outside.”

            “Actually you may as well go,” Sherlock said absently, sitting down at his desk with the computer. “We’ll call you with any developments.”

            “You don’t have my number.”

            “Then leave it.” Sherlock wasn’t paying attention anymore.

            John stood up hurriedly. “I’ll take it, Rogers,” he said kindly.

            He added the number to his contacts, and as the final digit was typed, he heard a horrible, drawn out cry of pain. He looked up.

            Rogers’ face was screwed up in anguish, and he tore out of the flat with a muttered apology. Looking around, John realised Sherlock had started the video.

            “Sherlock!”

            He looked up. “What?”

            “Timing!”

            He shrugged and returned his attention to the video.

            Glancing down the stairs after Rogers, John joined Sherlock at the computer.

            A man, Barry Quinn, was being electrocuted on a table. His screams, tinny in the computer’s speakers, filled the flat, and John reached down and muted the sound. He’d heard enough. Sherlock half-scowled at him and drew a pair of headphones out of a drawer and plugged them in.

            John watched the man be tortured a few moments more, and then turned away, disgusted. Sherlock continued watching, unaffected, his fingertips once again steepled beneath his chin.

            When the video was finished, Sherlock leant back in his chair, deep in thought.

            “Well?” John asked, watching him.

            Sherlock looked around, surprised. “Well what?”

            “Well what do you think? Why was he kidnapped?”

            Sherlock spun round in the chair to face John, his expression rapt, radiating energy and excitement.

            “Why would someone want to abduct a man like Quinn?”

            John shrugged. “Rogers said there was no real motive. No money, no connections, no reason.”

            Sherlock smiled. “Ah, but there must be a reason, John, otherwise it wouldn’t have happened. The question,” he moved to lie down on the couch. “Is what?”

            “Well … did you get anything from the video?” John asked.

            Sherlock smirked. “A little.”

            John rolled his eyes. “Go on, then.”

            Sherlock spun up into a sitting position and looked at John, who braced himself for an awful lot of words spoken impossibly quickly.

            “The walls were undecorated stone, crumbling, no insulation, so we know it’s an old building. They glistened, so we know the place is damp, probably near the river, in a disused area, judging by the lack of traffic noises and that no one’s reported a screaming man nearby. A single low-watt halogen bulb - you could see the wire running down the far side of the room - maybe there’s no electricity and they’re getting their power from some form of battery or generator. The video was of low quality, clearly not an expensive camera or camera phone, so it’s likely our abductors aren’t well off, however we do know they’re incredibly motivated to make a video in the first place, let alone edit it. It also implies it’s not just about Quinn, Rogers is important to them too, the question is why?”

            “And … do you know, then? Why?”

            “No idea.” Sherlock lay down on the couch once more, his fingertips touching under his chin. He was silent for several minutes. “Tell me about Rogers and Quinn.”

            John inhaled deeply, his eyebrows rising as he thought. “Not much I can tell you, really. Alex Rogers and I were mates in Afghanistan, but we never got to know each other all that well. Only worked together a couple of times – I stayed at the bases, offering medical help, for the most part. Rogers was more a foot soldier than I was. Only met Quinn once, seemed a nice guy. He and Rogers had been to school together, I think. Grew up together.” He thought a moment. “That’s it.”

            “Hm.”

            And that was it. Sherlock didn’t speak again for several hours. John finished his breakfast (he had to make fresh tea) and left him to it, deciding instead to go see Mary earlier than planned.

            He waved to a busy Mrs. Hudson through the café window and hailed a cab. No doubt Sherlock would text him if he needed help. And, John thought ruefully, no doubt it would come at a very inopportune moment.

            As he slid into the cab, he thought he saw a man on the pavement opposite, a camera phone in hand, pointing in John’s direction. Sending a text? When he looked again, the man was gone. Dismissing this, John gave the cabbie the address, and texted Mary, letting her know he was on his way.

 

*****

 

            “Hand me my phone, would you? I need to call Lestrade.” Sherlock waited, his hand outstretched, but there was no reply. “John? John!”

            He opened his eyes and turned his head to take in the empty flat. He must have gone out again. Probably to see Mary. Hm.

            With what seemed a monumental effort, Sherlock rolled off the couch and onto his feet, walked the three steps to his desk, and picked up his mobile. He quickly found Lestrade’s number and called it.

            “DI Lestrade,” came the familiar voice.

            “LeStrade, Sherlock. I need you to send me all the information you have on Lieutenants Alex Rogers and Barry Quinn, including the missing persons report for Quinn.”

            “We’re already looking in to that case, Sherlock.”

            “I know, and you clearly must be doing a marvelous job, but since Rogers arrived at my flat this morning asking for my help, I think it best you let me have a look. I’ll have John collect them in an hour.”

            He hung up before LeStrade could offer any further protest. He then texted John:

 

_Lestrade compiling data on_

_Rogers and Quinn. Please_

_collect, 1 hour._

_SH._

 

            As the message sent, Sherlock reached down and picked up a pen and a small square of blank paper from his desk. He scribbled down several lines of instructions, and then withdrew a fifty-pound note from his nearby wallet. Carefully folding the crisp note around the paper, he moved to the door where his coat hung, and stowed it away in one of the pockets. He donned the black coat, and pulled his striped blue scarf out of the left pocket and wrapped it around his neck as he went down the stairs and out of 221B.

            It didn’t take him long to find the woman he needed.

            “Spare change, sir?” she asked with a smile as she saw him approaching.

            “Go on, then.” He handed her the folded fifty-pound note, smiled, and turned to leave.

            As he walked away, the young woman slipped the list of instructions out of the note and read it carefully. Her brow furrowed.

 

*****

 

            John groaned as his phone vibrated loudly in his pocket. Again. Reluctantly, he drew his lips away from Mary’s and fished it out.

            “Uugh, Sherlock. Needs my help.” He looked up at Mary, the apology evident in his face. “Do you mind?”

            She smiled ruefully at him. “No, it’s alright, go. A pity though, we didn’t make much headway with the catering …” Her smile turned mischievous as she glanced from the coffee table, strewn with what had once been an organised wedding folder, to John, who smiled in kind.

            “All this wedding business is quite –“ he kissed her cheek “distracting.”

            She giggled. John felt his heart inflate with joy at the sound, and his own smile grew.

            “So’s your flatmate,” she replied, half-jokingly.

            “Mmm yeah, I know. Look, I’ll get this done as fast as I can, right, and then -“ he kissed her cheek again “I’ll come right -“ he kissed her nose “back -“ he kissed her other cheek “to you.” he kissed her lips.

            Her smile widened. “Mmm hurry back, Doctor Watson.”

            John smiled again, pecked her once more on the cheek, grabbed his discarded coat, and left.

 

*****

           

            The heavy box of files landed on the desk with a loud bang. Sherlock didn’t even flinch.

            “Well, here you are,” John told him, his temper wearing thin.

            “Mm?”

            “The files, Quinn and Rogers’ files, the ones you had to have.”

            “Oh.”

            John glanced around the flat, exhaling sharply through his nose.

            “Anything else? Or can I go spend some time with my fiancée now?”

            “What?” Sherlock tore his gaze away form the ceiling for the first time to look at John.

            “Mary, Sherlock. We’re trying to plan a wedding and that’s a hell of a lot easier to do when I’m not being interrupted by your bloody text messages whenever I’m with her!”

            “Uh, weddings. Weddings are boring.”

            “Not this one, Sherlock.” John’s voice was calmer now as he turned to the door. There was a pause.

            “John.”

            He turned around. Sherlock was sitting up straight in his armchair, his attention focused on the doctor.

            “What?”

            “I’m sorry.” John stared. “It’s still new to me, this … you and Mary. I forget you’re engaged, and what that means. I don’t mean to keep you from her.”

            John was amazed.

            “Are you feeling alright?”

            Sherlock smirked. “I’m fine.”

            “Well …” John glanced around the room again, unsure of what to say. “Thanks, Sherlock, I appreciate that. I’ll still help you with cases, you know I will, just … maybe not as much as before.”

            Sherlock nodded, sadly, John thought, and resumed his pensive pose.

            “Give Mary my regards.”

            John nodded curtly, smiled briefly, and went to get a cab.

 

*****

 

            That night, Alex Rogers sat alone in his small apartment, his head in his hands. His breathing was deep and ragged, his cheeks stained with tears. He was not accustomed to such an overwhelming feeling of helplessness. He could not think of a single thing to do to help Barry. He was no detective; he wasn’t even all that smart. But he was a good soldier, and a good friend. The knowledge that Barry was being tortured as he sat safely in his apartment was killing him.

            As though trying to console him, his phone chirped, announcing the arrival of a text message. Sniffing, he reached a hand into his coat pocket, pulled out the outdated device, and opened the message, the light of the small screen illuminating his tear-strewn face in a pale blue light.

 

                                                _Meet tomorrow to discuss case._

_Need more information. Address?_

_SH_

 

            Relieved to finally hear from the detective, Alex quickly typed and sent his reply.

            He leant back, gazing up at the dark ceiling, taking a deep, calming breath and exhaling slowly. He closed his eyes.

            This Detective Holmes was good, he knew, maybe even the best out there. If anyone could find Barry, surely it was Sherlock Holmes.

 

*****

 

            Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh, completely at a loss as to what to do. He was baffled, utterly baffled.

            He studied the two photographs in his hands, and re-read their descriptions yet again, but he still had no idea what he was meant to say.

            He glanced up at John, still waiting for his reply.

            “Well?” He was getting impatient.

            Sherlock opened his mouth and took a deep breath. He held it for a moment, his eyebrows raised, before exhaling in a rush and simply saying flatly,

            “John I have no idea what you want me to say.”

            John put a hand over his eyes and sighed.

            “Just, tell me what you think. We want your opinion. Which centre piece do you prefer?”

            Sherlock looked once more at the pictures of flower arrangements in his hands. He shrugged.

            “Oh, please Sherlock! Just pick one!”

            “Alright, alright … Well, the lilies represent refined beauty, celebration and ambition; the roses symbolize unity, friendship, passionate love. Both are fitting sentiments for a wedding.

            “Sherlock …” John growled, his face still in his hands.

            “But, you, already knew that, ok … umm …”

            “For God’s sake, Sherlock, which do you like more!”

            “Em …”

            “PICK ONE!”

            “The lilies. They’re more … elegant.”

            John breathed out heavily. “Thank you.”

            Sherlock dropped the photographs back onto the desk. “Why do you want my opinion so badly, anyway? It’s your wedding. What does it matter what I think – I’m hardly an expert on …” He waved a hand ambiguously. “Florals,” he finished lamely.

            John stared at him in disbelief. “You’re my best man, Sherlock, of course I’d want your opinion on the wedding. Besides,” he said as stood up, “Mary didn’t want to just flip a coin.”

            Sherlock looked away, smiling a private, if somewhat confused smile. He often felt like an outsider with this wedding business. A third wheel. It was nice to know John valued his opinion anyway.

            Sherlock reached for his coat. “Meeting with Rogers soon. Coming?”

            John checked his watch, then stood up. “Yeah. Think a bit of non-wedding related activity would do me good.”

 

*****

 

            When they arrived at Rogers’ apartment, the door was ajar. Instantly cautious, Sherlock pushed it open with a foot, his raptor gaze sweeping the room. There were several sheets of paper lying on the ground beside the kitchen counter, on which stood a sleeping laptop.

            “Rogers?” Sherlock called to the empty flat. John brushed past him and went to check the bedroom as Sherlock moved towards the laptop.

            He tapped the trackpad, and the screen flickered to life. It showed Rogers’ email account, an email open displaying a video with a REPLAY button gently flashing. Sherlock clicked on it.

            A familiar scream filled the small apartment. John ran back to the kitchen area, alarmed. Sherlock’s attention was focused entirely on the video. It was different than the first. It was still Barry Quinn yelling in agony, but they weren’t electrocuting him this time. They were whipping him.

            The shot changed. Now they were beating him as he struggled to breathe. The sound was altered; Quinn’s gasps of pain became quieter as a new voice spoke off-screen, with a slight Eastern accent.

            “Lieutenant Rogers. This afternoon, you will come, alone and unarmed, to Trafalgar Square. You will wait between the two lion statues, opposite the roundabout. You will be there by half past noon. If you do not completely comply with these orders, your friend will be shot between the eyes, and you will never find his body. For every minute you are late, your friend will lose one finger, then one toe, then limb.

            “The choice is yours, Lieutenant. Come and save your friend’s life, or stay away and be the reason he dies.”

            The video ended. John cursed. Sherlock checked the time on the laptop.

            11:59am.

            “Come on!” He ran out of the apartment, John hurrying to keep up.

            Once outside they were almost run over by a taxi in their haste to hail it; they leapt inside.

            It took them more than twenty-five minutes to reach the square. As the taxi paused in traffic, Sherlock saw Rogers waiting between the two black statues. He saw an old Land Rover pull up and a door open. Rogers didn’t hesitate but got in immediately.

            “There! Follow that Land Rover - the silver one!” Sherlock told the cab driver. “Quickly!”

            It was hopeless. The Rover disappeared once their cab was caught in a red light. Sherlock leapt out of the car and ran after the jeep. John dug hurriedly in his pockets and flung a handful of notes at the cabbie, then followed suit.

            Sherlock and John ran after the Rover, but it wasn’t long before its V6 engine outstripped the stamina of their legs as it disappeared along the A4 dual carriageway.

            Sherlock stopped, catching his breath, disappointment etched on his face. Seconds later, John caught up with him, his own chest heaving after the excursion.

            “I got … the reg number,” he panted, hands on his knees.

            “Might not matter.” Sherlock punched the air. “Why did he go? What good did he think he could do!”

            John looked up at him. “If he hadn’t gone, Quinn’d be killed.”

            “Come on John, he was going to be killed anyway! His captors let him see their faces - didn’t you notice none of them wore masks?”

            Anger welled up in John’s chest. “You’re not serious? What else could he do? How could he not go knowing his best friend would be mutilated?”

            Sherlock finally met John’s gaze.

            “It was still stupid. They’ll probably just kill them both now, and what good does that accomplish?”

            “Look, neither of them will die if we figure out where they’re going, right? Come on, didn’t you notice anything useful about the car?”

            Sherlock thought a moment. “Not much to go on, it was an older model, hardly difficult to come by nowadays. Scratches along the sides, maybe it’s been used off-ro -“

            He stopped mid-sentence, a look of sudden comprehension on his face.

            “Sherlock? What is it?”

            “Used off-road! There was mud on the tires, scratches from trees and hedges - country roads. I’ve been thinking they were using some old warehouse near the Thames - in London! I was wrong, they could be …” His face fell.

            “Anywhere.” John finished the sentence for him.

            They shared a disappointed glance.

            “Come on,” John said at last. “Let’s go see if Lestrade can do anything with that reg number.”

            On their way past the lion statues, Sherlock stooped and pulled out his ‘detective kit’, as John called it. He watched as Sherlock carefully eased a clump of dirt off the road, right beside the pavement. He placed it in a petri dish and pocketed it, then continued walking without a word. John raised an eyebrow, which Sherlock ignored.

 

*****

 

            The car, it transpired, had been sold three times without the necessary paperwork being updated. The last known owner of the Land Rover had sold it three years previously to a young man who had sold it on after only thirteen months. He kept no record of the person who had bought it.

            A dead end. Sherlock hadn’t been surprised.

            John was frustrated because Sherlock was frustrated. They had little to go on, and they knew it. The homeless network hadn’t found anything remotely helpful yet, and Sherlock was growing ever more convinced they wouldn’t.

            In St. Bart’s lab, he was staring into the microscope, his fingers tapping out a rhythm on the focus dial as he thought. He’d barely moved for hours now.

            “I’m just gonna get some coffee, do you want anything John?” Molly was standing by the door, one hand on the handle, smiling.

            “Em, yes please. Coffee would be great.” He returned the smile.

            She nodded and left the lab.

            A short time later, Sherlock’s phone rang.

            “Get that, would you?” He mumbled in John’s general direction. John spied the phone sitting on the counter less than three inches from Sherlock’s hand. With a sigh, he walked the length of the room and scooped it up.

            “Hello?” He paused as the voice on the other end spoke. “Yeah, em, he’s a bit busy at the moment. What’s up?” Another pause. John reached a hand out to the counter to steady himself as the words he was hearing hit him. “Oh, God … where? … Ok, we’ll meet you there. Bye.”

            He lowered the phone, his mind reeling.

            “What is it?” Sherlock didn’t look up as he spoke.

            “That was Lestrade. They … they found Rogers and Quinn.”

            Sherlock raised his head and met John’s eyes.

            “Dead?”

            He nodded.

            Molly returned as Sherlock sat back, taking his hands off the microscope for the first time in hours. He glanced up at her, two carry-cups of coffee in her hands.

            “Molly, John and I have to go to a crime scene. Could you finish the analysis?”

            She nodded, taken aback. “Sure, of course.” She glanced at John. “Does that mean, your friend, is he -“

            “Dead. Yes.” Sherlock spoke before John could.

            “I’m sorry.” The sincerity in her eyes was clear, and John felt a surge of affection for the young woman.

            “Thanks.”

            Sherlock was throwing his coat over his shoulders, his scarf already secured around his neck. He nodded a farewell to Molly and swept out of the room, John following behind.

 

*****

 

            The crime scene was a field half an hour outside of London city. The two men lay on their backs, side by side, Rogers’ head turned toward Quinn’s.

            John grimaced as he saw the too faces, pale, bloody, and still. As Sherlock knelt down beside the bodies, magnifying glass in hand, John cast an eye over their injuries.

            Rogers’ cheek was bruised, and there was a single gun shot wound to his right temple. A thin line of blood stretched from the small hole to his jaw, then curved down his neck, behind his ear.

            Quinn looked far worse. He was bare-chested; though one could be forgiven for thinking he wore a skintight purple vest for all the bruises across his torso. John guessed several of his ribs had been broken, and more cracked and bruised. His face was a mess. Blood clung to one side of it; his short hair was matted with it. His blue eyes were open, looking up at a sky they could not see.

            John turned away, a familiar agony welling up inside him as the sight triggered the awful memory. He took a step back and stood by Lestrade, waiting for Sherlock to finish his examination.

            When he stood up, Lestrade folded his arms, waiting for the customary onslaught of information. “Well?”

            Without looking up from the two dead men, Sherlock replied, gesturing with a finger as he ran through his list.

            “Quinn’s injuries are consistent with the video - small burns where the electrodes were attached to his skin, whip marks on his back. He was beaten several times, probably by two men, one left-handed, one right judging by the even distribution of bruises across his chest. One man wore thick hiking boots; you can see the faint outline of the toughened toe in the abdomen. Malnourished, lost about half a stone I’d say, maybe more. Cause of death was, I assume, a single shot to the back of the head: the angle suggests the killer was standing above him, that coupled with the relatively fresh cuts and bruising on his knees I’d say he was shot execution style.” He took a breath. “Rogers on the other hand was left mostly untouched - a blow to the head, another to the stomach, probably just to subdue him. Single shot to the right temple, point blank range - you can see powder burns on his skin and here, in his hair.”

            He looked up at Lestrade.

            “Right, okay … so … Can you tell me anything more about the killer?”

            “Not much, I’m afraid, but I’ve taken a sample of the mud from their shoes, that should help me narrow down the location.”

            Lestrade nodded, and stepped away to call the coroners.

            Sherlock took his place beside John, glancing at him from the corner of his eye. He was still looking anywhere but at the bodies.

            “I’m sorry.” The words were spoken softly, the compassion clear in his voice. John looked up into the blue eyes.

            “I’m okay.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

            “They were your friends.”

            John looked down at the two men for a long moment, his eyes once again taking in the blank, staring eyes, the pale skin, the blood. He suppressed a shiver.

            “That was a long time ago. I’ve seen worse.”

            It took Sherlock a moment to understand to whom John was referring. He raised a hand, hesitantly, to put on John’s back, but John had already turned away, heading for the road. Sherlock watched him go for a moment, taking a deep breath to banish the sudden tightness in his chest, then followed suit.

 

*****

 

            In the taxi on their way back to St. Bart’s Hospital, Sherlock broke the silence that had hung between them for the last ten minutes.

            “John.”

He grunted, still looking out the window, watching the sky darken and the bushes and hedges flash past.

            “John, I …” Sherlock frowned, trying to find the words. John looked around, intrigued by the unspoken ellipses.

            Sherlock took a deep breath and tried again, not looking at John. “I don’t know how I can ever … explain to you how …” He paused again, the wrinkle reappearing between his eyebrows. He took a deep breath and struggled on. “How incredibly sorry I am for what I did to you.” He turned his gaze to John’s, his features becoming less distinct as dusk gathered outside the cab.

            John saw the sincerity and misery in his friend’s eyes. He didn’t know what to say. He’d forgiven Sherlock, mostly, but sometimes when he looked at him all he would see was the blank, staring eyes and the blood-soaked hair, the small red rivers running down his face, between his eyes … Time had not lessened the effect that image had on John. It still hit him like a punch to the chest, made it momentarily difficult to breathe, and brought with it the months of misery and pain. And the anger that it had all been for nothing.

            But as John looked into Sherlock’s beseeching face, he saw the same pain mirrored there. John had not been the only one to suffer during the separation, he knew that. He reached out a hand and squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder, offering him a small but sincere smile.

            “It’s alright, Sherlock. Few more hundred cups of tea, and you’re there,” he added, the grin widening. The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched in response, as he returned his gaze to the now familiar buildings passing by.

 

*****

 

            Molly jumped as the double doors opened abruptly.

            “Oh, hi. Didn’t expect you back tonight.”

            “New evidence,” Sherlock replied absent-mindedly as he strolled over to his usual stool, a cup of coffee in his hand. He set the paper cup down in front of Molly as he passed her. John blinked, astonished.

            She stared at it in disbelief for a second, then looked round at Sherlock. “This for me?”

            “Of course,” he replied as he took off his coat and sat down by his microscope.

            The smile on Molly’s face made John’s heart swell with sudden pride in Sherlock. His relationship with Molly had changed since the business with Moriarty. It was heartwarming to see him be kinder to her.

            “Did you finish that analysis? Anything new?” Sherlock asked her.

            “Em, no, sorry. Nothing to narrow down the location, nothing specific enough.” She was still smiling.

            “Mm. Might not have been from the car. Hopefully this will tell us more.” He held up the sample of mud he’d taken from the crime scene. “This was on Rogers’ shoes. Should tell us where he went after he got in that car.”

            John sat down as Sherlock and Molly set about doing whatever it was they did to the dirt. Chemistry wasn’t his area - he left them to it.

            As they waited for some result or other, and Molly went to fetch a book at Sherlock’s request, John spoke.

            “Do you have any ideas yet? Why Quinn was abducted in the first place?”

            Sherlock looked up at him, his expression thoughtful. “No … It could have been random, but …” he trailed off, deep in thought. “There wasn’t anything in either man’s file to suggest a motive for kidnapping and murder. Unless they did something while in Afghanistan to offend someone, something that wasn’t reported.” He glanced at John, the question clear in his eyes.

            “Em, nothing I remember, but I can -“

            His phone dinged, announcing the arrival of a text. John looked down at his mobile, and smiled at the sight of the sender’s name. It was from Mary.

            The smile faded as he read the message.

            “Uh-oh.” He was in trouble. “Oh damn. It’s Wednesday, isn’t it? Date night.”

            “Mm.” Sherlock wasn’t listening, his attention once again focused on the microscope.

            “Sherlock.” John waited until he looked up from the microscope. “I’ve got to go see Mary. You alright here?”

            He nodded absently, his gaze returning to the eyepieces.

            John grabbed his coat and jogged out of the lab, putting his phone to his ear as he called Mary, the apology ready on his lips.

 

*****

 

            When John arrived home that night, Sherlock wasn’t there. As this was hardly an unusual occurrence, he didn’t worry. He merely sent the detective a quizzical text, sat down with a cup of tea, and watched the last hour of _The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy_ on Film4, mostly just to admire the protagonist’s dressing gown.

            When the film was over, John checked his phone. It was half past eleven and still no word from Sherlock. He must be out investigating Rogers’ case, John thought sadly, remembering the horrible image of his two dead comrades. Or else still looking at dirt in the lab. He sent another text to his flatmate, and then headed up to bed.

            Sherlock wasn’t there the next morning. John checked his room, which proved empty, the bed not having been slept in.

            Frowning, John took out his phone and called Sherlock. It rang out. Unusual. He stood in the living room, deep in thought.

            This was very unlike Sherlock. He never disappeared for any great length of time without an explanation. With one obvious exception which John tried to ignore.

            He called Molly to ask if Sherlock had stayed at the lab last night, forgetting to come home. She said she was at Bart’s now, and there was no Sherlock. He’d been there last night, she continued, but had left in a hurry, about an hour after John had, to return to Baker Street, she had assumed. Thanking her for her help and promising to keep her updated, John hung up.

            He sat for a few minutes, thinking. Before the Moriarty business, John would have trusted that Sherlock would come back, that he was fine and simply caught up in the case.

            But grief had a way of changing things.

            Wishing he wasn’t so paranoid, John called Lestrade.

            “DI Lestrade?”

            “Greg, it’s John. Listen, have you heard from Sherlock lately?”

            “No, haven’t talked to him since yesterday at the field. Why? Everything ok?”

            John paused, wondering how to convey the nagging anxiety he felt without sounding like a worried fool.

            “Well … it’s just, he hasn’t been home since then either. Hasn’t answered texts, and that’s definitely not like him.”

            “Hehe, yeah. Hm. Ok John, I’ll put some feelers out, see if we can’t find out what he’s up to. I’ll keep you in the loop.”

            “Thanks Greg.” He hung up.

            John let the hand holding the phone flop down onto the arm of the chair. It was ridiculous how powerful the anxiety was, how quickly it had gripped him.

            Rather than sit still, he went and found Mrs. Hudson to fill her in. She was instantly worried, though tried not to show it. Instead, she busied herself with tidying their apartment. She ignored John’s insistence that it was unnecessary, and he only left her to it when she handed him a cup of tea and biscuits as a bribe.

 

*****

           

            Alone in the flat, John tried to think like Sherlock. He tried to think what else Sherlock would do if it were he, John, who was missing. No epiphanies came to him, but instead uninvited memories kept clamouring for his attention. Memories of the last time he’d sat in this very armchair, staring at Sherlock’s, trying to understand the beehive-like mind behind the blue eyes …

            Before the old sadness could get a hold on him, John got up and, unable to think of anything remotely useful to do, decided to go to bed early. He tried Sherlock’s mobile once more before turning in. There was no answer.

            As John lay in bed, he began to realise this couldn’t be a coincidence. Or could it? But what were the chances that an old comrade of his would turn up out of the blue with a missing best friend, also a military man, and a mere three days later, the same thing was happening to John?

            He sat bolt upright.

            Surely that wasn’t a coincidence.

            He fumbled on his bedside table until he’d found his phone, and called Lestrade. He explained this new revelation to him, eager to hear what the detective inspector thought. This was more his area than John’s. John was no detective, not really. He was the blogger, the companion. The protection.

            “Well …” Lestrade hesitated before replying. “I won’t say it doesn’t sound odd, but it could just be a coincidence …”

            He paused. John waited.

            “But,” Lestrade continued, “it sounds like something Sherlock would come up with, and I’ve learned to trust his word. Yours too, John. I’ll look into it, first thing tomorrow, I promise. Re-open the case if needs be.”

            Relief washed over John, accompanied by a grateful smile.

            “Thanks, Greg, I appreciate this, really I do.”

            “No worries mate. And John, try not to worry too much. We’ll find him. We will.”

 

*****

 

            Three days later, there was still no sign of Sherlock.

            John was beside himself with worry. He’d run the day Sherlock disappeared through his mind so many times it started to bleed into his dreams. He would be talking with Sherlock, in the lab, and as Sherlock studied the microscope, John would stand up and head for the door, intending to get them some tea. When he returned, Sherlock would be gone. Sometimes there was blood on the bench and floor. In his dream, John always knew he wouldn’t see Sherlock again if he left the room, but he was unable to stop himself.

            John had not been sleeping well. The new nightmares had triggered the old ones’ return, and his nights were filled with falling figures, sickening crunches, the horrible dream-walking that was never fast enough, and blank, unseeing eyes …

            John tried to leave the nightmares in his bed, and instead devoted his energies to finding Sherlock. There was, however, one problem.

            He couldn’t think what else he could possibly do to help find his friend. He’d called Mycroft, but he hadn’t been much help. John thought through the conversation as he lay in bed, wishing Sherlock were just downstairs, maybe playing with his gun again, or fiddling with his violin.

            John still hadn’t forgiven Mycroft for betraying Sherlock, and they’d barely spoken since then. But, like him or not, he was powerful, and, John had reasoned, he may know other ways to find Sherlock. Besides, they were brothers. Reluctantly, he had found the right contact and pressed CALL.

            “Hello?”

            “Mycroft. John Watson.”

            “Ah, John. To what do I owe the, eh, pleasure?”

            “Have you heard from Sherlock lately?”

            “Not recently, no. Why? Got himself into trouble again has he?”

            John had bristled at the patronizing sneer in the man’s voice.

            “He’s missing.”

            A pause.

            “Missing? Explain.”

            John sighed. “We were at a crime scene yesterday -“

            “I know.”

            John had bitten his lip, trying to keep his anger in check. “We were at a crime scene yesterday, then we went back to Bart’s, and no one’s seen Sherlock since. He’s not answering his phone, and he hasn’t been home since yesterday evening.”

            “Hm. That is unlike him …” Mycroft had paused, and John had been relieved he wasn’t contesting the point of concern. “I’ll get some people onto it, have a look around. Thank you for the call.”

            With that, the elder Holmes brother had hung up.

            Returning to the present, John put a hand to his mouth, thinking. He couldn’t just lie here waiting. That was out of the question. But what else could he do?

            What would Sherlock do?

            John leapt to his feet and fetched his coat, angry with himself for not thinking of this sooner. He knew what to do.

 

*****

 

            It took two very expensive taxi rides and almost three hours to find her. Anna, though he doubted that was her real name. She was the homeless woman Sherlock had employed to help them during the Van Coon and Moriarty cases.

            John had spent weeks searching for her after Sherlock had … left. Back when he was so full of hope that Sherlock would return, would grant John that last miracle, he’d been temporarily obsessed with finding her. Once he had, she was no help. He had given her a hundred pounds but she wouldn’t tell him anything about Sherlock. Although, she had looked sorry for him. Maybe she never did know what Sherlock had done, he’d never asked him. They didn’t talk much about those two years.

             He found her on North Gower Street, asking for change. She saw him coming, and looked wary. John raised a reassuring hand as he approached.

            “Wait, please. I just need to ask you one thing.”

            She looked around, slightly nervous. “Spare change, sir?”

            Realising he wasn’t playing the game properly, John dug in his pockets, found a twenty-pound note and handed it over.

            “Listen, have you seen Sherlock? Do you know where he is?”

            She shook her head, not looking at him.

            “Will you tell me if you see him? Will you try to find him for me? Please?”

            She looked down, considering.

            “Look, I don’t have any more money on me, but I’ll give you double that there if you help me find him.”

            Still she didn’t respond.

            “Please. It’s not like last time - I promise. We’re just worried. No one’s seen him in days.”

            She looked at him, and nodded, smiling slightly. John returned the grin.

            “Thank you.”

 

*****

 

            On the fourth day after the disappearance, John was alone in the flat, checking his blog for the hundredth time that day. He’d posted an appeal for any information of Sherlock’s whereabouts, but apart from a concerned comment each from Harry and Mike, there had been no word. For some reason, constantly refreshing the page wasn’t helping.

            Sighing, John put a hand on the top of the screen, about to close the laptop. He paused as a small box appeared in the top right hand corner of the screen: he’d received a new email.

            Without thinking, John clicked on it, hope surging through him - maybe it was Sherlock, explaining what he was doing, why he’d disappeared.

            It wasn’t.

            It was a video.

            Had John thought about it, he may never have had the courage to open it.

            But he didn’t think. He simply clicked.

            The video showed a familiar dark room with no windows, the only source of light being a naked bulb hanging from the ceiling. The only piece of furniture in the room was a table. A man lay there, his wrists and ankles tied to the table. John recognised the figure with a thrill of horror. He barely took in the dark-clothed men around the table, until one of them flicked a switch on a box just off screen and the figure on the table screamed in pain, arching his back.

            Sherlock.

            John couldn’t move. He couldn’t think. He wanted to mute the computer, as he had done days ago, but he couldn’t make his hands obey him. He was frozen, horrified, at what he was seeing, at what he was hearing. Sherlock was trying not to scream, but the sound broke through his clenched teeth in bursts of uncontrollable agony.

            As the first surge of electricity faded, Sherlock spoke, his voice laced with pain.

            “John, don’t watch! Don’t watch! Please Jo-“

            His words were silenced by a blow to the abdomen. John gasped as though he had been hit too. Sherlock tried to speak again, but again he was brutally punched. One of the figures then replaced the gag that had slipped off his mouth, and another reached for the box once more.

            The gag did little to muffle the renewed yells of agony.

            John stared, transfixed. He couldn’t comprehend what his eyes and ears were telling him was true. It couldn’t be, it simply couldn’t.

            Having not watched the video Rogers was sent, John was unprepared for what happened next.

            Sherlock was dragged from the table, his hands rebound behind his back, and shoved to his knees right in front of the camera. John could see him more clearly now. His face was bloodied, his breathing ragged. His immaculate suit was no more, the jacket and shirt gone and the trousers stained with blood. His chest was bare and bruised. Cuts stood out in stark contrast to the pale skin. John could almost count his ribs. He was emaciated. There was a nasty cut on his left temple; blood still trickled slowly down the side of his pale face.

            Abruptly, the camera was moved. It still showed Sherlock, though from a higher angle, revealing a large barrel of water in front of him. One of the black-clothed men grabbed the back of Sherlock’s neck and forced his head under the water. Sherlock struggled, the water writhing as he unintentionally released some of his air.

            When his head was dragged up, the gag slipped. Still gasping for air, Sherlock spoke again, a new urgency to his voice now.

            “Don’t come John! It’s a trap! Promise me -“

            Yet again, a blow cut him off, this one knocking him off his knees to lie gasping on the damp floor.

            The camera moved from Sherlock to another man, smaller and leaner than the other two. John could clearly see the man’s face, and it wasn’t one he recognised. He had dark skin that whispered of the east, but his features looked English. He was holding today’s newspaper - John recognised the headline. Once the camera was on him, he let the paper fall and spoke. He had a slight accent, though John’s shocked brain couldn’t place it.

            “Captain Watson,” the voice said. “In two days time, you will come, alone and unarmed, to Trafalgar Square. You will wait between the two lion statues, opposite the roundabout. You will be there by half past noon. If you do not completely comply with these orders, your friend will be shot between the eyes, and you will never find his body. For every minute you are late, your friend will lose one finger, then toe, then limb.

            “The choice is yours, Captain. Come and save your friend’s life, or stay away and be the reason he dies in agony.”

            The video ended. There was a button offering to replay it.

            John felt sick. He put a hand over his mouth, afraid he might scream. He stared at the innocent screen, trying to understand what he had just seen.

            Sherlock. Tortured. Starving. Alone.

            John closed his eyes against the horror of it all and put his head in his hands, ignoring the laptop as it fell to the floor as he bent over.

            That was how Mrs. Hudson found him, half an hour later. She had offered to do a spot of shopping for John, and she bustled into the kitchen, determined to remain cheery for John’s sake.

            “John? I got all the stuff on your list, and I threw in a few extra packets of digestives, just in case.” She glanced over at him, doubled over in his armchair. Her smile faltered. “John?”

            She walked around to face him, and sank to her knees, putting a consoling hand on his arm.

            “Oh, John. Don’t worry. We’ll find Sherlock, I know we will. And you know him, he’s probably just -“

            “I saw him.” He didn’t look up at her. He couldn’t. His voice sounded as though he’d been strangled.

            “What?”

            “I saw him, just now. On my computer … There was … a vid-video …” He couldn’t get the words out. Speaking them would make them irrevocably true, and John so desperately wanted that awful thing to be a mistake.

            “What are you going on about? What video?”

            John looked up at her and saw nothing but concern in her eyes. He opened his mouth to try and explain, but instead of words came a low strangled cry of despair. Mrs. Hudson wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him close in a tight hug.

            “There, there, dear. I’m here. I’m here.”

            The words echoed through John’s memory, to all the nights she had sat by his side, trying to console what was inconsolable as she herself struggled to keep a cheery mask in place. John had heard her many times, crying downstairs, sometimes whispering Sherlock’s name in misery. He had wanted to go down and offer her what little comfort he could, but had rarely made it down the stairs. He knew Mrs. Hudson loved Sherlock, almost like a son, and he knew that, no matter what he tried, he could never replace the hole his death had left in her huge heart. Instead, he allowed her to channel her grief into comforting him, and taking care of him on the days he would rather have spent alone. She was the only other person who could at least understand the awful silence Sherlock’s absence had left.

            And now that silence had returned.

            John relaxed into her embrace, welcoming the comfort. For several minutes the two remained motionless, save for John’s deep, ragged breathing.

            Eventually, John straightened up. “I have to call Lestrade.”

 

*****

 

            Half an hour later, John watched as the Detective Inspector and Sargent Donovan were watching the video in Lestrade’s office. John had refused to watch it again, and instead waited in the bullpen.

            He’d been trying to remember everything Sherlock had said about Rogers’ video. It looked like a run-down building near a river, somewhere outside the city, far away from any sounds of traffic … There were thousands of buildings that matched that sparse description. He tried to remember the background of the video, the men’s faces … there must be something that could help him pinpoint the location …

            _Think, John, think!_ he told himself fiercely, and in his head the voice sounded like Sherlock’s.

            He pulled out his phone and called Molly.

            “Hello?”

            “Molly, it’s John. I need to know what you found out about that dirt you and Sherlock were analyzing the day he vanished.”

            “Wha- why, has something happened?”

            “The people who abducted Quinn and Rogers have taken Sherlock.”

            There was a pause as this information sunk in.

            “Please, Molly. What did you find out?”

            “Yes, yes of course, there was em, evidence of vegetation, and nutrient-rich soil - I remember Sherlock said it was probably from near a lake. And, um, there was soot residue.”

            “Soot?”

            “Yes, but that’s when Sherlock left - I don’t know what it means. Maybe a building that burnt down?”

            John nodded, that fitted. “Thanks Molly, that should help.”

            “John?”

            “Yes?”

            “If those people have Sherlock, does that mean they’re … they’re …” She couldn’t finish the sentence. John couldn’t bring himself to say the words either.

            “Yes. They are.” He heard a muffled sob, and a sniff.

            “Call me if you need anything, okay?”

            “I promise. I’ll call you later. Thanks Molly.”

            As John stowed the phone away in his pocket, he saw Lestrade beckon him into his office. He looked slightly sick.

            “Your hunch was right,” he said dismally as John entered.

            John relayed the information Molly had just told him. Lestrade nodded appreciatively, and sent Donovan to find all areas around London that matched the description.

            Once she’d left, Lestrade looked John straight in the eye.

            “Are you okay?”

            John didn’t answer. Of course he wasn’t.

            “You?”

            LeStrade shook his head in disgust. “We’ve got less than two days to find where they’re keeping him, and get him out of there.”

            “And if we can’t?”

            Lestrade glanced up at John.

            “We will,” he said, determinately.

            John laughed a mirthless chuckle.

            “Yeah, there’s only a few thousand acres of countryside to cover! And that’s assuming they took Sherlock to the same place they held Quinn, which is hardly likely, now is it? They might know Sherlock, in which case they’ll know how he thinks!” John was shouting now, the pent up anxiety and helplessness bursting out of him.

            “For all we know the whole reason they took Quinn was to get Sherlock involved! They could have known I served with Rogers. Could’ve guessed Rogers would come to me for help - this could all be a trap to get Sherlock!” He flung his arms in the air. “For all we know, it’s Moriarty!”

            Silence filled the office as Lestrade waited for John’s breathing to calm slightly. When he spoke, his voice was soft and full of understanding.

            “John, I don’t think it was Moriarty. He’s dead -“

            “Well one of his people, then!”

            “Sherlock said he got everyone who was a threat to us. I believe him, don’t you?”

            That gave John pause. “But … What if he was wrong? What if someone managed to hide from him …”

            Lestrade chuckled. “Hide from Sherlock Holmes? There’s a trick. Look, John,” he said, his voice turning serious once more. “It makes no difference who has him, for now. We have enough to go on, enough to find him. And if, as you say, they’ve taken him elsewhere … Well, we’ve still got time, haven’t we?” He smiled bracingly. Unconvincingly.

            John nodded. He didn’t want to talk about this anymore. He was tired, so tired. He slumped down in one of the chairs by the desk, his breath leaving him in an audible _whoosh_.

            “I can’t believe this is happening again,” he said, more to himself than Lestrade.

            “Whatchu talking about? Again?”

            “I left hi-“ John put a hand to his mouth and tried again. “I left him in that lab - again. And now he’s in trouble. It’s my fault, I -“

            Lestrade put a consoling hand on John’s shoulder as he fought for composure.

            “Listen, mate.” Lestrade leant against the desk, his voice low and sincere. “If you’d stayed with Sherlock all night, they still would have found a way to get him. If they wanted him, they’d’ve found a way, now, wouldn’t they?”

            John nodded, still unable to speak.

            “Look, John, you can’t keep blaming yourself for this. You’re not Sherlock’s bodyguard, you’re his friend. And it’s normal to worry about him - God knows I do. But blaming yourself for everything bad that happens to him isn’t doing anyone any good.”

            John nodded again, allowing the words to comfort him, though not really believing in them. Slowly, he regained control.

            “We should tell Mycroft. He might be able to find him. He’s smart. Well-connected. Maybe he can find out who the speaker from the video is.”

            Lestrade nodded, glad to see John’s practicality returning. “Good idea. I’ll give him a call. Why don’t you go back to Baker St and get some rest. You’ll need it for when we storm the castle and rescue Sherlock.”

            John smiled and rose from the chair, turning for the door.

            “And John?” He stopped and turned round to face the detective inspector. “Stay away from Trafalgar Square.”

            Mary was waiting for him in 221B. He fell into her arms, and they sat together in silence, as John sought refuge in her embrace. The sky outside slowly darkened, and, without meaning to, John drifted off into a much-needed sleep.

 

*****

 

            John awoke the next morning, lying on the couch wrapped in a blanket. He could hear someone in the kitchen, and for a moment he forgot.

            “Sherlock?”

            The tinkling of mugs stopped as the person paused. Mary stuck her head around the doorjamb, and John remembered why he’d fallen asleep on the couch.

            “I’m just making some tea, love.” The concern in her voice was clearly audible, though she managed to hide it from her features.

            “Ok. Thanks hon.” She smiled and returned to the kitchen as John sat up and rubbed his eyes. His shoulders slumped slightly as he felt the weight of anxiety and fear settle upon them once more. He tried to ignore it.

            The sleep had done him good, he felt far more rested than he had in days. He stretched and yawned.

            Mary came back a few minutes later, and handed him a steaming mug of tea.

            “How are you feeling?” She asked, returning to the kitchen.

            “Mm, stiff, but rested.” He took a sip of the hot tea. The moisture on his tongue seemed to electrify his stomach; suddenly he was ravenous. “And hungry!” he added, his tone surprised.

            Mary chuckled as she re-entered the room, carrying a tray of toast, jam and two apples. She placed it on his lap and he smiled gratefully up at her, then dug in.

            “What time is’t?” he mumbled around a mouthful of jammy toast.

            “Half ten.”

            John raised his eyebrows, surprised he’d slept so long on the couch. “Any word from Lestrade?”

            “He’ll be here for eleven …” Her voice sounded odd, and she was avoiding eye contact.

            “Mary? What is it? What’s happened?” His heart sank sickeningly. “Did they find Sherlock …?” He meant to add the word ‘dead’ but it was lost somewhere in his throat.

            “No, no not yet. But John, it’s Monday.”

            John froze.

            “You were exhausted - you slept for over a day. Mrs. Hudson and I thought it best to just let you sleep.”

            John stared at her. Monday. Half past ten. _Monday_. They would start mutilating Sherlock in just two hours.

            Dimly, he felt Mary’s hand on his back.

            “John, love, you’ve got to eat. Please, you need your strength.”

            He nodded. She was right. He took another bite of toast, but it tasted like ash. He washed it down with some tea, but that too had lost its flavour.          

            “Did Mycroft call? Did he find anything out? What about Anna - I mean, the homeless network? There must be something!”

            Mary shook her head, her eyes glistening. “Nothing I’ve heard, dear. Just wait till Greg gets here, I’m sure he’ll have news.”

 

            He didn’t.

            With a heavy heart, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade sat down opposite John and Mary to inform them that he had no leads. They were barely halfway through their search of old buildings near lakes. Mycroft Holmes had not been in touch. There was nothing they could do but continue searching.

            John disagreed.

            “John, you listen to me now,” Lestrade was using his detective tone, firm and forceful, not leaving any room for discussion. “You will not go there, do you hear me? You know what happened to Rogers, this is just the same - you were right. You can’t go playing into their hands, alright?”

            John didn’t respond.

            “He’s right, John. You can’t go.” Mary’s voice shook ever so slightly as she said this. She understood him, she knew his heart. If he had already decided … There would be no stopping him.

            “I have to go.” He stated it simply. It was, as far as he was concerned, the only possible course of action. Mary bowed her head as unwanted tears rushed to her eyes. She did not let them spill. Lestrade put a hand to his forehead.

            “John, no -!“

            John cut across the detective inspector, anger colouring his voice. “If I don’t go, Sherlock dies! I’m the only chance he’s got. If I stay here, we may as well be signing his death warrant.”

            Lestrade opened his mouth to answer, then closed it again. They both knew there was no time, no choice. No choice they could live with, anyway.

            John rose and collected his jacket. Lestrade stood between him and the door, his face full of concern.

            “John, I can’t let you go.”

            “Do what you said. Find where he is. Meet us there. God knows he’s going to need an ambulance.”

            “John, you can’t go, listen to me! Listen to Sherlock, he begged you -“

            The rest of his sentence was lost as John punched him on the cheek with all his might.

            “John!” Mary cried out in alarm.

            Lestrade staggered, and fell, disorientated and surprised.

            “I’m sorry, Greg,” John said as he walked past, not looking at him. “I’ll not let him die again because of me.”

            He was outside hailing a cab before Lestrade could do anything to stop him. Mary was beside him in seconds.

            “You are not coming.” She’d never heard his voice sound so firm and final. The tears were starting to overflow, but she ignored them as she gazed up into the face of the man she loved.

            “I know. I won’t try to stop you, John. But please,” her voice cracked slightly. “Please, come back to me.”

            He pulled her into a tight hug and kissed her hair.

            “I swear to you I will.” He knew it was a promise he might not be able to keep, but he vowed then and there to try everything in his power to see this woman again.

            He pulled away and brushed the tears from her cheeks with one hand. He kissed her briefly, whispered his love, and got into the taxi.

            In the cab, John tried not to think about what was about to happen. He knew there was a good chance he would not survive this night. Rogers had died. He had no reason to suspect he would live.

            A smile fluttered briefly on John’s lips as he realised that was not quite true. He had Sherlock.

            As weak as Sherlock no doubt was, John knew he would find some way out of this, for both of them. He was Sherlock Holmes after all, how could he not?

            The image of Sherlock, bloodied and beaten, rose to the forefront of John’s mind. Doubt accompanied it.

            John took a deep breath, which he exhaled through his mouth in an audible gush. He would not doubt Sherlock. He had not doubted Sherlock’s intelligence when Moriarty convinced the world he was a fraud; he would not doubt him now. Sherlock had once left his home and his only friends to protect John. As angry and as hurt as John had been when Sherlock finally reappeared, he knew that he had not suffered alone. Sherlock had made a huge sacrifice for John, Molly, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. He had left the only people who had accepted him for who he was, the only people who genuinely liked him, despite his sometimes abysmal social skills. He had left everyone who had loved him in order to save them.

            And so for two years, Sherlock Holmes had been utterly alone. John had never felt as alone as he had done when he had thought Sherlock was dead, but as he thought about his extraordinary friend in the ordinary taxicab, he realised for the first time how lucky he had been.

            He had had friends to support him, people to help him stay afloat in that vast, dark ocean of grief.

            Sherlock had had no one.

            He must have grieved, in his own way, for the friends he could no longer see. He didn’t even have the comfort of London, the familiar streets and shops - the sense of belonging John knew Sherlock felt there.

            He was alone again now.

            But not for much longer.

            John Watson did not understand why this was happening. For now, he didn’t try to. As far as he was concerned, his best friend was alone and hurt and he alone had the power to end his suffering. He would go willingly with the men who had tortured his friend, and he would do everything in his power to get Sherlock out of there alive. He owed Sherlock that much. And more.

            Glancing out the window, John recognised the familiar streets roll by. They were close now, less than five minutes away.

            John thought of Mary.

            He pictured her beautiful face in his mind’s eye, savouring every detail he could, as though he would never again be able to look upon her. With a horrible, heart-wrenching sensation, John realised how true that was. If he couldn’t keep his promise, he may never see her again. They may never be married. He might be about to drop her in her own ocean of grief, like the one from which she had helped save him. If he was unable to keep this, his last vow to her …

            Shame and sorrow threatened to overwhelm him. By choosing to save Sherlock, he may well be choosing to abandon Mary forever.

            The taxi stopped.

            “Here we are, mate. That’ll be eight pounds fifty.”           Broken out of his reverie, John fumbled for his change. He only had a tenner on him. He handed it to the cab driver, told him to keep the change, and got out of the car.

            The decision was made. John could not live with himself if Sherlock died because of him. He would just have to hope he could find a way to return to the woman he loved.

            Standing between the lion statues, John waited. He was early; it was only ten past twelve. He took the time to calm his breathing and focus his thoughts. He straightened, falling back on his military training to help him cope with what was about to happen. He must be able to think clearly.

            He banished the image of Mary’s tear-stained from his mind, along with the guilt he felt for this betrayal. No matter how hopeless the situation, he would at least try to return to her.

            Standing to attention, Captain John Watson, of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers saw the silver Land Rover pull up in front of him, and the back door swing open. Without a moment’s hesitation, he strode forward with his head held high, and calmly got into the car.

 

*****

 

            Sherlock couldn’t think.

            His entire body ached with pain. Every breath burned like fire. His head throbbed fiercely; it seemed to cause him physical pain to form coherent thoughts.

            He was aware of his surroundings, but only dimly. The room they had left him in was dark, something he was grateful for. The light in the other room had burned his eyes mercilessly, even through his tightly closed eyelids. This was the room he had lived in for the last … how long had it been? There were no windows, no way to mark the passing time other than by counting his own ragged breaths - which hurt his head - or trying to notice the slight fluctuation in the temperature. It was damp, and therefore cold, but during the first few hours he had noticed a definite drop in the temperature at what he assumed must be night. He could no longer detect any change in temperature. He was cold, and he thought he might be getting colder, but he couldn’t tell if it was the fault of the dank, draughty room and stone floor, or his own body slowly failing him.

            What about the beatings? They were the only break in the monotony of waiting, powerless and bound as he was on the floor, unable to move. Did they come for him once a day or once an hour? He had no way of knowing. Time had ceased to make sense, to mean anything. It had stopped passing fluidly, as it should. Usually Sherlock would spend what he thought was two minutes contemplating some problem or other, and find when he awoke from his reverie that several hours had passed. There were no more such temporal leaps; he seemed aware of every second as it snailed by, cruelly, mocking his agony.

            Sherlock lay on his side with his wrists tied behind him and a rough cloth tied around his mouth. It wasn’t comfortable, of course, but this was how they’d left him, and he hadn’t the strength to move. He seemed permanently caught between consciousness and sleep, his exhaustion warring with the pain that prevented his muscles and mind from relaxing.

            When he did sleep, he had nightmares. He had grown used to them during the long hiatus while he hunted down Moriarty’s men. They had come every night, full of fear and pain and the faces he could no longer see. Sherlock had been surprised at first to discover himself suffering from homesickness and loneliness, but as the months had worn on, he became ever more frustrated with his subconscious for its ruthless fascination with sentiment.

            The dreams he had now, though, were different. He would be sitting on the couch in Baker Street, plucking out a tune on his violin. John would be in the kitchen, making tea. In the dream, Sherlock would experience the annoying feeling of having to tell John something, yet being completely unable to remember what it was. All he knew was that it was important. _But what?_

John would enter, a cup of tea in a saucer in his hand. He’d hold it out to Sherlock, and smile, but as Sherlock’s fingertips touched the cool ceramic saucer, the cup would fall. It would crash to the ground, the sound impossibly loud, echoing unrealistically, the tea staining the hardwood floor. They would stare at the mess for a long moment, and then Sherlock would look up, expecting John to scowl, or smile exasperatedly. Instead he would look upon Sherlock with such fury and hatred, that his breath would catch in his throat. He would try to apologise for his clumsiness, but John wouldn’t listen, his features contorting into another man’s, the skin darker, the frame taller; he’d shout and stride forward, his fist raised –

            Sherlock opened his eyes, panting. He was alone. John wasn’t there.

            He laid his head against the cold stone, and waited for his pulse to slow. He didn’t understand that dream. John looked nothing like the man who held him here, yet the two were linked in Sherlock’s mind. Why?

            He breathed out heavily, wincing as his bruised ribs stretched. His very mind seemed to ache. Wearily, he dismissed the question, choosing instead to allow his mind to calm and relax, choosing not to think. It was an odd experience. He wished he could play his violin; lose himself in the well-known melodies, allow his mind to ride the clear, beautiful notes out of his confusion, let them guide him to the hidden truth …

            His eyes had readjusted to the darkness by now, and he stared at a trickle of water running down the wall opposite. He remembered the small surge of satisfaction when he’d smelled the lake upon his arrival.  He’d been right. He had been blindfolded, but he had smelled the moisture in the air. The corridor he’d seen between the two rooms hadn’t told him much; only that the shack that was his prison was in disrepair, part of it burnt down.

            Hunger gnawed at Sherlock’s stomach. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten, or what. It must have been the day Rogers arrived at the flat. The pain of hunger was a curious one. It was usually so easy to ignore, indeed, Sherlock would intentionally avoid food while on a case. It helped him think, kept him alert. But now the nature of his hunger had changed, become more insistent, more obvious. Sherlock had become grateful for it in these past - days? Weeks? He could distract himself from the aches and stings covering his body by focusing his attention on his hunger. He could handle the familiar ache.

            That pain was easier to manage that the knife-like sting of his ribs as he breathed, or the dull ache of his bruised abdomen and face. The pain of the burns had slowly lessened until they joined the general throb of misery that seemed to pulse with each heartbeat.

            Sherlock was no stranger to silence. Indeed, it was a valuable asset while thinking. The silence that permeated the dank room however, held no comfort for him. It was too … sterile. The only sound to be heard was his own shallow breathing and the faint trickle of water down the cold, stone walls. If there were birds nearby, Sherlock never heard them sing. And when the door to his room opened, it rang through his head like an explosion.

            He closed his eyes as he remembered the last time he’d been in the other room. Had they been making the video to send to John, or did that happen long ago? It must have been sent to him by now. He opened his eyes and was dimly surprised to find them wet with unshed tears. He was exhausted. The walls protecting his mind from his heart had crumbled, and he found himself unable to divorce himself from his aching loneliness and fear for his friend. He hoped John had listened to him, had refused to come. He wished it fiercely, and yet a small part of him wanted nothing more than to see his flatmate again.

            He pictured his face, now in the darkness. He knew it well, every line, every angle. Every expression. He knew John Watson as well as he knew himself.

He knew what this sudden absence would do to John, who would still wake late some nights, screaming Sherlock’s name …  Sherlock hated himself for the pain he had caused John. That it was a necessary side affect to saving the doctor’s life was of little consolation. He sighed. He so hoped John hadn’t watched the video – he hadn’t even been able to watch a stranger being tortured. Sherlock had tried not to let his agony show, tried to lock the screams in his chest, but the pain always managed to surprise him with its intensity, and his control over his body would slip. Whether or not John had watched the video in its entirety, he would have received it by now.

With a heavy heart, Sherlock knew John would come for him. He hated himself for feeling heartened by this thought. If John came, he would be killed, Sherlock was sure of it. If John stayed away, only Sherlock would die. There would be more pain first, of course, but then they would kill him. And John would be safe. Safe to marry Mary, and take care of Mrs. Hudson, and Molly, and Lestrade. Safe to annoy Mycroft.

            Sherlock felt his heart warm as he pictured his friends’ faces. He would die, but they would live on and be safe. As long as Sherlock knew that, he wasn’t so afraid to die.

            He hoped John didn’t come.

 

*****

 

            Neither of the two men in the car spoke until they had reached their destination. John hadn’t asked them any questions, and they hadn’t offered any information.

            He occupied himself by looking out the tinted window, trying to memorize the route. He’d been doing fine until they’d left the city limits, and taken too many lefts and rights down one-laned roads that all looked the same to him.

            Carefully, carefully, he slipped a hand into his jacket pocket to his phone. Casually checking if the man beside him was looking - he wasn’t - John slid his phone ever so slightly out of his pocket, just enough to see the bottom centimeter or so of the screen out of the corner of his eye. The phone was on silent, and he saw for the first time a missed call and several texts from Lestrade. Using his peripheral vision, John tapped open one of the texts and, without bothering to try and read it, he hit REPLY. Wishing he’d stayed with an old-fashioned phone equipped with buttons, he clumsily typed in the general area they had entered and tapped the SEND button.

            He shifted in his seat, disguising the motion of securing his phone once more in his pocket and prayed he’d hit the right keys and Lestrade would know where to look.

            Several bumpy minutes later, they arrived.

            The two men got out of the car, and gestured for John to do the same. The chilly air was a welcome change from the stuffy too-hot atmosphere of the car, and it helped settle John’s growing nerves. Whatever this day would bring, it would start soon.

            One of the men, tall, thickset and bald, stepped up to John and quickly frisked him, checking for any weapons. He found his phone, but returned it to his pocket. John noticed a handgun sticking out of a holster at the man’s waist.

            The building, if it could be called that, was a single-story stone shack, built within a stone’s throw of a calm lake. Molly had been right, one of the front rooms had been badly burnt, the dull grey stone plastered with fine black soot. The roof was tiled, which John found vaguely surprising: it seemed the sort of structure to suit a thatched roof.

            John followed one of the men inside, the other walking close behind him. As he passed over the ordinary threshold, John felt his stomach constrict apprehensively.

            It was silent inside the shack. Dampness hung in the air, and a chill ran up John’s spine. He wanted to say something, anything, to break the sinister silence of the place, but his mouth was dry and his mind blank of any witty comments.

            He was led into the room from the video, the light flickering lazily on as he entered. The table had been pushed up against a wall, and there was no sign of the camera that had been used. The two men steered John to the far wall and stood behind him, facing the closed door.

            Several minutes later, a third man entered. He was slim, with dark hair and darker clothes. It was the speaker from the video. Anger swelled like a stoked flame in John’s chest, devouring his fear, and he fought the urge to stride forward and strike the man.

            “Captain Watson,” the man said. His voice was smoother than it had sounded on the video. Silkier. He stopped in front of John - out of arm’s length, he noted ruefully - and stood with his hands clasped behind his back, calm and in control. A predator surveying its prey.

            “Where’s Sherlock?” John demanded, his voice steady and clear.

            The man smiled with satisfaction and did not answer.  “Do you know who I am?”

            “A dead man?” John replied, his voice tight with barely suppressed rage.

            The man’s smile widened. “You may call me Blackthorn. Do you know why you are here?”

            John didn’t answer. He felt a hundred curses on his tongue, eager to leap off and attack the pompous man standing before him, but this was not the time for name-calling.

            “I am the brother of Markus Zayid.”

            He waited for John to react. After a moment, John raised his eyebrows arrogantly.

            “Is that name supposed to mean something to me?”

            Anger flashed in Blackthorn’s eyes. He stepped forward and punched John hard in the gut, causing him to double over, wheezing. The henchmen did not loosen their grip on his arms.

            John laughed.

            Blackthorn hit him again, his voice echoing around the room as he shouted. “Do you really not know, John Watson? Have you really forgotten the man you _murdered_ so quickly?”

            John frowned. “The man I … murdered?” he panted, looking up. He shook his head, tired of this game. “Just tell me where Sherlock is you son of a -“

            His words were cut off by a hard fist to his chin. He felt his lip split and tasted blood. The rage inside him was writhing, aching to be unleashed. His hands curled into fists.

            “Markus Zayid is the man you and your comrades murdered six years ago in Afghanistan. You shot him between the eyes in cold blood - he was unarmed and on his knees!”

            “What are you on about?” John stared up into Blackthorn’s eyes, wide with anger and contempt.

            Blackthorn jerked his head at one of the henchmen, who let go of John and left the room. The other tightened his grip on John’s arms.

            “On the sixteenth of November, six years ago, you and Lieutenant Rogers were invading a village in the desert.” Blackthorn’s voice was tight with fury, his slight Eastern accent becoming more prominent in his rage. “We saw you take innocent women and children into your vehicles, and we opened fire, trying to save them from your vile touch.”

            John remembered. They had been on a routine patrol and had been ordered to get the women and children out of a nearby village - the village was the target for a bomb set by one of the Rogue Armies fighting in the area. John had stayed near the truck, ushering the terrified people inside. They had gone willingly - other Rogue Army members had already attacked the village before: they knew to fear the ones clad in red and beige. One of the squadrons had opened fire on John and his comrades, they had fought back to allow the villagers time to reach the truck. Not all of them had.

            “My brother walked bravely to you,” Blackthorn continued, a vein popping in his forehead. “To beseech you stop stealing our women, to ask for _peace,_ and you and Lieutenant Rogers shot him! While he was on his knees _begging_ for you to stop!”

            John swallowed as he remembered the face of the man he now knew was called Markus Zayid. He had come within meters of the truck, his hands raised showing he had no gun. But that did not mean he was unarmed.

            It was Rogers who had seen it first. Zayid’s robe had slipped open in the rising wind to reveal a bomber vest. _He_ was the bomb intended for the village.

            He had dropped to his knees, his hands clasped together, not in prayer, but to hold the detonation device he’d pulled from a pocket.

            As one, Rogers and John had raised their guns and shot the man before he could activate the bomb.

            It had taken both men a long time to recover.

            “He was a suicide bomber. If we hadn’t killed him he would have blown the whole village up! He had enough C4 strapped to his chest to -“

            Blackthorn lashed out at John’s head. The blow was more powerful than the others, and John fell to one knee, the pain dazzling him.

            The door opened behind Blackthorn as the man holding John jerked him to his feet. The bald henchman returned, half carrying, half dragging in a limp body with curly black hair.

            He threw the thin man on the ground between Blackthorn and John, then resumed his place behind John, his fingers tightening painfully around his arm.

            John winced as Sherlock hit the stone floor, unable to break his fall with his hands tied behind his back. The smack of bone on stone rang through the room with a sickening echo. Sherlock didn’t move, save the slight rise and fall of his narrow chest.

            Anger and disgust welled up inside John, threatening to overpower him as he took in the sight of Sherlock’s back. It was crisscrossed with angry red lines, some of which still oozed blood. Whip marks.

            The sight of his best friend lying half-conscious, weak and bleeding, turned John’s blood to ice. Horrible memories raced through his mind. The fall. The blood. The funeral. The grief.

            He made to reach for Sherlock, but the two men held him in an iron grip. One of them - the one John decided to kill first - lashed out with a foot and kicked Sherlock’s exposed ribs.

            John’s vision turned briefly red as he watched his friend recoil and heard the low coughing moan of pain as a bone cracked audibly.

            “It took me a long time to come to England,” Blackthorn continued, his voice calmer now. John didn’t look at him; he had eyes only for the barely conscious detective lying on the cold floor. “And longer yet to find you and Lieutenant Rogers.” He smiled savagely. “Thank goodness for your blog. It was most helpful.”

            “Sherlock?” John whispered, not listening to the villain’s monologue. Sherlock didn’t respond. His breathing was little more than a low rasp. A string of bloody saliva hung from the corner of his mouth to the floor.

            “Your blog was even more helpful in informing me who it was you cared for above all else. It saved me weeks of research.” He paused to draw a gun out of the waistband of his trousers. “He’s quite a talker, your friend. Most disrespectful.” He gestured to the cloth wrapped around Sherlock’s mouth. John smirked despite himself. He was proud of Sherlock for annoying these bastards enough for them to want to gag him, for fighting back with his silver tongue. The bruises covering what little of Sherlock’s face John could see reminded him what this rebellion must have cost the detective, and his heart seemed to deflate.

Blackthorn’s tone became pensive. “I could just kill you, but what good would that do me? What satisfaction is there in that? I want you to _truly_ suffer, as I have suffered.” His voice had become a low hiss.

            He reached down and grabbed a fistful of Sherlock’s hair, dragging him onto his knees. Sherlock’s eyes flickered and half opened. He met John’s eyes and he felt his heart break.

            He had never seen such tenderness and love in Sherlock’s eyes before this moment. There was sadness there too, and the pain he was trying not to show leaked into the brilliant blue irises. A tear rolled silently down his cheek, disappearing into the gag.

            John understood the look in Sherlock’s eyes. He had hoped John wouldn’t come for him. Maybe he had worked it all out, and knew he would have died no matter what happened, but had wanted John to remain safely in Baker St.

            Their gaze was broken as Sherlock’s energy faded and he slumped forward slightly, unable to hold his head up any longer. He remained on his knees, his back arched and bleeding, his head hanging low to the ground.

            Blackthorn spoke again, each word dripping with satisfaction and hatred. “You murdered my brother as I watched, helpless, from the rooftops. Rogers has already paid for his part in it - then shot himself out of shame. I do hope you’ll resist that urge, though, Captain Watson. I want you to truly understand my suffering.” He grabbed Sherlock’s hair again and yanked his head up, exposing his neck. “A brother for a brother.”

            He let go of Sherlock’s hair and swung the gun round to aim it at the back of Sherlock’s head. Sherlock’s eyes found John’s as a horror he had only felt once before gripped his heart.

            “No!” John shouted, panic in his voice. “No, kill me, I’m the one who shot Zayid, take me!”

            Blackthorn smiled vindictively, enjoying John’s desperation. John tried to lunge forward, but the two men were stronger than he, and they had expected the move.

            “I already understand your damn suffering! I thought Sherlock was dead for two fucking _years_! I understand!”

            Blackthorn looked curiously at John a moment. “Irrelevant. He was not dead.”

            Blackthorn cocked the gun.

            John’s heart began to race.

            Sherlock opened his eyes and looked up into John’s terrified gaze. Understanding passed between them.

            A split second before Blackthorn pulled the trigger, Sherlock made his move. Faster than John would have thought possible of someone in Sherlock’s condition, he lashed out with a his bare foot, hitting Blackthorn’s shin hard, causing the bone to break with a loud _crack_.

            Blackthorn cried out in pain, his finger squeezing the trigger reflexively. The bullet spat out of the gun and buried itself in Sherlock’s left shoulder. He landed face down on the stone floor with a muffled yell and lay still.

            John reacted incredibly quickly. As soon as Sherlock started his brief attack, he spun round in the henchmen’s arms, twisting one arm out of the bald one’s grip. He rammed his elbow into the man’s soft abdomen, and he doubled over with a gasp. Without losing any momentum, John reached his free arm behind the other man’s back, and grabbed his gun while bringing his right knee up to make contact with the man’s groin. He chopped down on the back of the man’s head with the butt of the gun, and then swung round once more to whack the bald one hard in the temple. He felt the man’s skull cave in on impact.

            Within seconds, John had incapacitated the two henchmen and was standing straight and tall, the gun pointing at Blackthorn’s face.

            Blackthorn looked up from his injured leg, and stared at John for a long moment. His face was contorted with pain and anger. He brought the gun round to shoot Sherlock again.

            Before he could move more than a few centimeters, however, John pulled the trigger. The bullet fired out of the small handgun and flew straight between Blackthorn’s angry eyes. It continued through the dead man’s brain and exploded out of the back of his head in a shower of crimson.

            Silence fell, broken only by John’s heavy breathing. He stood, momentarily paralyzed for a few seconds more, then remembered Sherlock.

            He flew to Sherlock’s side and hastily untied his hands, throwing the cloth aside. He pulled the gag off over Sherlock’s head. The angry red whip marks looked even worse up close, mingling with the fresh blood still pouring from Sherlock’s shoulder. John swallowed hard, trying to keep calm.

            He mentally shook himself as the years of medical training took over. He knelt down and pulled Sherlock’s uninjured shoulder, gently pulling him onto his back, the better to see him.

            He tried not to throw up.

            There was blood congealing on Sherlock’s forehead - probable concussion. There were older cuts and bruises splattered across his chest, some partially healed, others fresh - probable broken ribs, certainly some cracked ones. He could count each rib from where he knelt - emaciated.

“She-Sherlock,” John cleared his throat and tried again. “Sherlock. Can you hear me? Sherlock?”

            The prone figure did not reply.

            John gently touched two fingers to Sherlock’s neck, checking for a pulse.

            He waited.

            And waited.

            There! It was feeble, it was weak, but it was there! His heart was beating. He was alive! Relief rushed through John like a waterfall over a narrow gully.

            Next he checked his breathing. Faint. Shallow. He’d need to be intubated as soon as possible. Sooner.

            Carefully, John inspected Sherlock’s shoulder. The bullet had gone straight through, but had clearly done a lot of damage on the way. He realised it wasn’t just water he was kneeling in. It was blood - Sherlock’s blood.

            John reached for the discarded rags and wrapped them as tightly as he could around Sherlock’s shoulder, then hastily removed one of the henchmen’s belts, tying it over the cloth as tightly as he dared. He pressed down hard on the wound with both his hands, trusting the cold stones to help stem the bleeding on the other side.

            Sherlock’s brow twitched as the pain of it registered. His back arched ever so slightly, and his thin breathing quickly became more ragged.

            “I’m sorry, Sherlock,” John whispered, and he meant it. He hated having to cause his friend further pain, but he knew the blood loss would kill him - the pain wouldn’t.

            With one hand, now red with blood, John dug into his pocket and withdrew his phone. He stared at it, frozen with shock. _No signal_.

            “Oh God, no!” He looked around frantically, as though checking to see if the run-down shack had a landline. He needed an ambulance. Right now. Indecision paralyzed him for a further thirty seconds.

            He nodded once, deciding what to do. As gently as he could, he pulled Sherlock into a sitting position, and then up onto his back, trying not to hear the soft groans as he caused his friend yet more pain as his broken ribs pressed against John’s back. He stood up, staggering slightly under the extra weight.

            Trying to walk as smoothly as possible so as not to jostle Sherlock more than necessary, he left the room.

            John had managed to send Lestrade a text before arriving at the shack, so somewhere nearby there must be signal. Once he found it, he would call for help and try to keep Sherlock stable until it arrived.

            Blood trickled down from Sherlock’s shoulder, slowly soaking through John’s jacket, and then his shirt. He tried to ignore the hot liquid oozing down his shoulder and arm.

John felt as though he’d been walking for an age when he finally saw two little bars appear in the top left-hand corner of his phone’s screen. He felt weak with relief as he stopped. Breathing heavily, he carefully laid Sherlock down flat on his back on the soft grass, then called for an ambulance.

It wasn’t until he heard a man’s voice on the other end that he realised he didn’t know exactly where he was. Wishing he had Sherlock’s memory for directions, he gave the general area and told them that Detective Inspector Lestrade of New Scotland Yard would probably be en route. The calm voice assured him an ambulance would be there soon. John didn’t feel any better as he hung up.

            “Oh, Sherlock,” he breathed, looking the pale figure up and down, unable to fathom the depths of depravity needed to inflict so much pain on another human being. He returned his hands to Sherlock’s shoulder, feeling horribly inadequate.          

            Sherlock’s head moved slightly, his eyes still closed. John lent closer, just in time to hear the barely audible whisper, the familiar voice ragged and hoarse, and dripping with pain.

            “John …”

            “Yes Sherlock, it’s me, I’m here. I’m here.” Tears threatened to spill out over his cheeks. He saw the corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitch slightly in a flicker of a smile.

            John’s heart seemed to break.

            How many times had he questioned Sherlock’s ability to love, to care for someone? How many times had he cursed his lack of empathy while working on cases? How many times had he thought that the man he called his best friend could be so callous as to cruelly abandon him for two years?

            Here, now, was proof that those thoughts had all been wrong.

            Sherlock’s head lolled to the side as whatever energy he had left him.

            “No, Sherlock, stay with me, _stay with me!_ ” John’s voice was desperate. He felt the feeble pulse of blood beneath his hands falter. “NO! _Sherlock_! Stay with me, fight!”

            The emaciated chest stopped its subtle rise and fall as Sherlock’s lungs ceased.

            “NO! SHERLOCK!” John was shouting now, his voice filling the cold air. “Sherlock, I’m here! It’s me, it’s John, please Sherlock, _fight_!”

            John’s hands moved to Sherlock’s chest as he started CPR. He couldn’t feel the synthetic thump of the heart that could not beat itself, but he heard and felt the scraping of Sherlock’s broken ribs with each beat. He ignored the abhorrent sensation and pressed down hard again. And again.

            Grabbing Sherlock’s chin and nose, John blew air into his mouth, then quickly returned his hands to his chest and beat again. One, two, three, four, five …

            He interrupted the rhythm again at thirty to breath more air into the still lungs. One, two, three, four …

            Tears were chasing each other down John’s cheeks, as though desperate to escape the turmoil within him, but he barely noticed. He didn’t notice the unresponsive body he was trying to save had become blurry.

            _One, two, three, four …_

            “Please, Sherlock … _please_ ,” John wasn’t sure if he was saying the words or thinking them. He wasn’t aware of his own body anymore, save the intermittent pressure in his hands. He ignored the growing ache in his shoulders and the tight pain in his stomach from the blow he’d received. He ignored the voice in his head that was telling him it was too late, that it had been too long. That Sherlock Holmes was dead.

            “Please, Sherlock, please. For me. Fight for me. Please Sherlock, don’t leave me again. Not again. Please.”

            A wonderful sound broke through John’s terror. A siren. He looked up and saw an ambulance trundle down the narrow lane beside them, lights flashing, followed by two police cars.

            John let out a cry of relief, and yelled at them to hurry. He didn’t dare interrupt the rhythm of his beating hands. His gaze returned to Sherlock’s still face, and he smiled.

            “Hear that, Sherlock? They’re here,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Help’s here. It’s going to be fine, you’re going to be fine.”

            He looked up. A paramedic had arrived and was speaking to him, asking him how long he had been administering CPR as he readied the small machine John recognised as a portable defibrillator.

            How long had it been? Ten seconds or ten minutes? He shook his head, unable to make the words come.

            The paramedic nodded, and gestured for John to move as he placed the paddles on Sherlock’s thin chest. He sat back, his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s face, realising his tears had spilled over onto his cheeks and wiping them away angrily. Lestrade arrived, gasping in horror at the sight of the consulting detective. He knelt beside John, putting a hand on his shoulder. If he spoke, John didn’t hear a word.

            The paddles were engaged.

            Sherlock’s body spasmed as the electricity coursed through him. John looked away, unable to bear much more of his friend’s suffering. Another paramedic, a woman, had put a mask over Sherlock’s nose and mouth, and was pushing air into his lungs by pressing the stiff bag attached to it. He settled his gaze instead on the portable EKG beside Sherlock’s shoulder. A flat line.

            The paramedic charged and administered the paddles again.

            A flat line.

            Again.

            Nothing …

            Again.

            … Nothing …

            Again.

            … _Beep_ …

            John cried out in relief, a strange choking laugh. He looked back to Sherlock’s face. It hadn’t changed, but the EKG had just given him hope.

            Time started to behave oddly then.

            One minute the paramedics were set about their work with calm, practiced movements. They put temporary bandages on any wounds that still bled, and together heaved Sherlock onto a board, and left, John staying close by Sherlock’s side. The next, they were in the ambulance, the siren blaring loudly. One of the paramedics handed John the intubator bag and told him to squeeze regularly. They tended to Sherlock’s gunshot wound while John breathed for him; gently squeezing the bag attached to a plastic tube that disappeared down Sherlock’s throat, staring at his friend’s still, blood-stained face.

            It seemed both an age and a second later that they arrived at the hospital. They were met by several doctors and nurses who bustled around the injured man, rushing him through the hospital’s double doors while John jogged along beside him. Abruptly, without warning, Sherlock was swept away through a pair of double doors and John was told to wait.

            It felt like a lifetime of worry. John had never been in a situation like this before. He’d never been the friend or the family, waiting in the wings. He’d always been in surgery, fighting to save whatever life was placed trustingly in his hands. He had been the patient, when a hole had been blasted through his own shoulder, and again when he thought he’d injured his knee. But he had never understood, until that precise moment, how much worse it was to be in the waiting room.

            In surgery, there was always something you could try, always another move, right up until the heart sopped beating and refused to restart. As a patient, all you could do was fight, survive. Later, when you’d woken from the anesthetic, you could work on regaining strength, staying positive, healing.

            In the waiting room, there was nothing you could do.

            All there was was this seemingly endless expanse of time stretching off into the dark distance. The only thing John could do was wait for this torturous hiatus to be over, and learn whether or not his friend had died.

            That thought sent fiery razors tumbling down John’s chest. His breath caught.

            Lestrade arrived not long after John had sat down. He knew better than to make conversation: there was nothing to say. John suspected he wanted to know what had happened inside the shack, and was grateful he didn’t ask. He couldn’t talk about that now. They both felt the compressive weight of anxiety in their chests, making it that small bit harder to breathe. John noticed the angry bruise on Lestrade’s cheek, and gestured apologetically. Lestrade shook his head, dismissing the earlier attack. John nodded, still unable to speak.

            He looked down at his hands and saw they were still red with Sherlock’s blood. Lestrade noticed too. He put a gentle hand under John’s arm, and pulled him to his feet. He led him to a nearby restroom, and silently helped him wash off the sticky red liquid. He handed John a shirt, explaining he usually kept a change of clothes in his car for work. Grateful, John took off his own blood-soaked shirt, and began washing the blood from his shoulder and back.

He caught sight of himself in the bathroom mirror. His face was gaunt, the cut on his forehead standing out in sharp relief against the pale skin. The old scar on his shoulder was visible through Sherlock’s blood, pale and puckered. For a moment, John felt the ghost of the pain of the bullet wound. He heard, as though echoed from the distant past, the screams and yells and cracks of gunfire. He gulped, averting his gaze from the haunted eyes in the mirror. When he was clean, he and Lestrade returned to their seats and waited.

            A nurse appeared soon afterwards and bullied John into letting her tend to his wounds. He knew he wasn’t badly hurt – they were superficial cuts and bruises, but there was no point arguing with the young woman trying to do her job.

            At some point John realised he should call Mycroft, and Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft didn’t answer, so John sent him an unnecessarily blunt text and left it at that. Mrs. Hudson was frantic, of course, and arrived within twenty minutes, complete with a small bag of biscuits and two flasks of ‘proper’ tea. John was glad for the distraction of drinking the tea - it at least kept his hands busy. Mary had been waiting in 221B, and arrived with her. She rushed to John’s side, her eyes swimming with tears, and put her arms around him. He relished her comfort, and leant into the embrace, staring blankly at the floor. The joy he should have felt at seeing her beautiful face again was numbed by the raw dread that filled his chest.

            Next they called Molly. She arrived in less than ten minutes, and had John not been so preoccupied he would have marveled at her speed. She must have bribed the cab driver.

            Together they waited.

            A nurse appeared out of nowhere. John shot to his feet, his face ashen. It was too soon, he knew. She must be here to tell them that Sherlock was -

            “You’re waiting for Sherlock Holmes?” she asked him.

            He nodded, not trusting to speak.

            “Do you know your blood type?” She addressed this to the small group. Relief flooded through John - he was still alive. If they wanted blood, then he was still alive.

            “A negative,” John answered at once.

            “Will you -“

            “Yes.”

            The nurse nodded and gestured for John to sit. Not wasting any time, she set about withdrawing his blood. Lestrade pulled his sleeve up past his elbow, ready to donate.

            “How much has he lost?” John asked the nurse, fearing the answer.

            “We’re not sure. At least five pints, probably more.”

            John gasped. That was about half the total volume …

            “How much are you taking?”

            “Just under two.”

            “Take more.”

            She looked up at him and smiled, but didn’t answer.

            The nurse finished her work in short order, and told the two men to eat something sugary to help replenish the blood they’d given for Sherlock.

            John tried to ignore the blueberry muffin Molly had found him, but was soon bullied into forcing down a few mouthfuls.

            Mycroft didn’t turn up until well after dark, with the simple excuse of “I was busy” to explain his absence. John fought the urge to punch him. He was still furious with Mycroft for his involvement in the Moriarty business, and so far he’d done nothing to get back into his good graces.

            Sometime after the sun had fully risen outside the grimy window, a doctor arrived.

            John stood up, realising for the first time how stiff his legs were. He supposed he hadn’t moved much during the wait. Mary stood beside him, a hand on his arm. Lestrade nudged Molly and Mrs. Hudson awake so they could hear. Mycroft joined John on his feet and, before the doctor could so much as open his mouth, asked imperiously after the state of his brother.

            The doctor looked slightly taken aback, but regained his composure quickly.

            “He’s alive.”

            John almost missed the next few words as relief left him momentarily lightheaded. He heard Mrs. Hudson and Molly breathe a sigh of relief too, and felt Mary’s hand squeeze his arm gently.

            “The surgery went well, overall,” the doctor continued. “There were several complications, however, and due to the amount of internal trauma I’m afraid we had to remove his spleen. His appendix had also become quite inflamed, and so we removed that, too.” He paused to let this news sink in.

            “As for the, eh, other injuries …” he continued, “there was a significant amount of blood loss, but we were able to give him enough for now, thanks to you.” He smiled.

            John attempted to smile back, but it felt like more of a grimace.

            “He had several broken ribs; we reset them and they should heal without difficulty. The em … the cuts on his back are a cause for worry, however. Several of them have become infected, so we’ve started him on a strong antibiotic, and that should clear it up within the next few days.

            “His shoulder has, I’m afraid, suffered quite a lot of damage. Several muscles were torn, and he’ll need a fair bit of physical therapy, but, barring any complications, he should regain the full use of the arm.”

            John exhaled slowly, absorbing this news.

            “Can we see him?” he asked, glad his voice sounded even.

            “Once he’s out of recovery, yes. About another hour or so. I’ll have a nurse come and fetch you.” The doctor’s smile faded slightly, and he looked John straight in the eye, his tone very serious. “Your friend is very weak. The next twenty-four hours are crucial. We’ll be keeping a close eye on him, but …”

            As the doctor paused, John’s heart sank. He recognised the meaning of what the doctor wasn’t saying. He’d used the same tone himself, many times. He was telling them that there was a chance Sherlock wouldn’t wake up from the anesthesia. He could slip into a coma, become brain dead -

            John shook his head, unable to think it.

            “But he might not wake up.” Mycroft’s voice was perfectly normal, as though he were commenting on the weather.

            The doctor nodded solemnly. “That is a possibility, yes.”

            No one spoke.

            “If you have any questions, just have a nurse page me,” the doctor said kindly, and took his leave.

            For a long time, the small group said nothing. Eventually Lestrade suggested they get something to eat before seeing Sherlock. Since it was better than staring unseeingly at the creepily clean floor and walls, they all agreed, and went in search of the cafeteria.

            Neither John nor Mycroft ate. Mary tried to entice John with a toffee apple pie, but the thought of food made him feel nauseated. He drank more tea, and managed to force down a digestive, just to stop her worrying. He would eat later, with Sherlock.

            The nurse came for them when they returned to the waiting area. She showed them to a room in the ICU, and told them she would be at the nurses’ station if they had any queries.

            A strange lightness filled John’s chest as he entered the room. His heart felt oddly constricted. He swallowed hard, preparing himself.

            Sherlock was lying in bed, unconscious. An EKG beeped quietly beside the bed. An IV was attached to the crook of his left arm, along with several other tubes. A nasal cannula rested just under Sherlock’s nose, and there was a large bandage covering one side of his forehead. John could see more bandages crisscrossed across his chest through the neck in his gown.          

            John sat down in a chair by the bed and put a hand over his mouth. He looked so … unlike Sherlock. Had the situation not been so serious, John would have laughed at the sight of Sherlock Holmes in a hospital gown. It was bizarre.

            He reached out and gently took Sherlock’s hand, squeezing it to let him know he was there. He didn’t respond. He slept on; his breathing smoother and more regular than it had been at the shack.

            He heard a faint sob and looked around. Molly had a hand to her mouth, her eyes filled with tears. Lestrade put an arm around her, and she leant into him, grateful for the comfort.

            Mrs. Hudson was on the other side of Sherlock’s bed, needlessly straightening his pillows, looking quite lost. Mary sat down beside John and put a hand over his and Sherlock’s. He looked up at her, and they shared a look of deep affection and mutual sorrow. She moved her hand to his knee and gazed miserably at Sherlock.

            Mycroft stood at the end of the bed, his face unreadable. John wondered if he even cared that his little brother had almost died. He certainly hadn’t been much help in finding him.

            Unwilling to lose himself in anger, John looked back to Sherlock’s face. He didn’t look as pained now, John noticed with relief. He glanced around and saw one of the tubes hooked to the detective’s arm was a morphine drip. Good. He deserved some peace.

            A while later, Lestrade broke the watchful silence. “I really need to get back … We still have to process those two thugs from the shack.”

            Mrs. Hudson stood up, looking flustered. “Oh, I should get back too, but …” She cast a worried look at Sherlock.

            “Don’t worry Mrs. Hudson, we’ll call you if anything … changes,” Mary said quietly.

            “I can give you a lift if you like,” Lestrade offered, giving her a warm smile.

            Mrs. Hudson nodded appreciatively as she collected her bag. She put a gentle hand on Sherlock’s hair and kissed his forehead before following Lestrade into the corridor, glancing back once at her injured tenant.

            After they had left, Molly disappeared for several minutes, returning with dry eyes and coffee for everyone. John took his, grateful for the caffeine. He was exhausted, but had no interest in sleeping.

 

*****

 

            Several hours later, both Mary and Molly had fallen asleep on the couch beside the window. Mycroft and John were sitting on opposite sides of the bed, both gazing steadily at Sherlock. John jumped slightly when Mycroft broke the long silence.

            “Thank you, John.”

            John glanced at him; he was still staring into his little brother’s face.

            “For what?”

            “Finding him. Saving him.”

            John scoffed, his heart hurting. “He’d never have been in danger if it weren’t for me.” The guilt he had barely been keeping at bay flooded through him like a burst dam. Mycroft looked at him, curious.

            “I … don’t understand.”

            John heaved a sigh, hiding his face from the elder Holmes brother by staring fixedly at his shoes. He noticed a red smudge on the toe of the left one.

            “The man who - who did this. He did it because I killed his brother in Afghanistan. He wanted to kill Sherlock as revenge.”

            “A brother for a brother …” Mycroft mused quietly. “How quaint.”

            John laughed once without humour. He took a deep breath, then looked up and met Mycroft’s gaze.

            “I’m sorry, Mycroft.”

            He looked confused. “Sorry?”

            John nodded, swallowing. “It’s my fault all this -” he gestured to the bandages and machines surrounding Sherlock “- happened. I’m sorry.”

            Mycroft leant forward. “You listen to me, John Watson. I know we don’t exactly see eye to eye on many things, and I know you’re still angry with me about the … incident with Moriarty, but.” He paused, holding John’s gaze. “Believe me when I tell you, that this … this horrible ordeal was not of your doing.”

            John exhaled heavily through his nose, and swallowed again.

            “My brother …” Mycroft began again, his eyes shifting from John to Sherlock. “I always used to worry about him. Constantly. But since he met you, John, I’ve been sleeping far more soundly than before.”

            John shook his head, his voice cracking as he spoke. “But I - I let him -“ He stopped, unable to say the words. He gestured to Sherlock instead, indicating his injuries.

            “You did not ‘let’ Sherlock get hurt, John. You stopped him being hurt any further. You did far more than I could. You saved his life. And for that I am immensely grateful.” He leant back in his chair, his gaze returning to Sherlock, allowing John a private moment to regain his composure.

            Eventually, John gave in to his exhaustion and fell asleep, his head resting on his folded arms on Sherlock’s bed. Mycroft had dozed off some time before, and as John laid down his throbbing head, he inched his hand closer to Sherlock’s, so he would feel it if it moved.

 

*****

 

            John awoke quite suddenly, unsure what had roused him from his deep slumber. He looked around. Dawn was slowly creeping into the night sky outside the window, replacing the inky black with rose and ocher. Mary and Molly were still asleep on the couch, Molly’s head resting on Mary’s shoulder. Mycroft was sitting in his chair, his head propped up on one hand as he dozed on.

            Sherlock was awake.

            John felt a wide smile spread across his face as he saw the bleary eyes open slowly and felt the thin fingers reach for his.

            “Sherlock?” He grasped Sherlock’s hand.

            “John …” His voice was low and hoarse, the single word slurred from exhaustion. John snatched a plastic cup of water from the bedside table and held it up to Sherlock’s mouth. He sipped gratefully, wincing slightly as he swallowed.

            “John … are you … alright?”

            John stared. Was _he_ alright? He chuckled, gazing fondly at his best friend. “Yes, Sherlock, I’m alright.”

            “They … hit you …” Sherlock could barely get more than one word out with each breath.

            He snorted. “Well, they hit you more. How are you feeling?”

            “Hmm … groggy …”

            “That’ll be the anesthesia. Don’t worry, it’ll wear off soon enough.”

            “What … happened?” Shame and guilt swept over John as he stared into the half-open blue eyes, bleary from their ordeal.

            “Sherlock, I’m … I’m so sorry. All of this, it was my fault. That man, Blackthorn he called himself, he …” John took a deep breath, knowing Sherlock wanted to understand. “He took you because he wanted to hurt me. I killed his brother in Afghanistan, years ago. That’s why he took Quinn - Rogers was there that day, too.

            “He was a suicide bomber we shot before he could detonate. Blackthorn spent I don’t know how long trying to get into the UK and find me, apparently.”

            Sherlock frowned. “But … why not … kill you?”

            “He … thought that would be too easy. He wanted me to … to understand ‘his suffering’.” He looked down at the sheet, unwilling to look Sherlock in the eye as he continued. “A brother for a brother, he said. He wanted me to feel his pain.” He paused. “I’m sorry Sherlock, I’m so sorry. It was all my fault …” His voice broke.

            Sherlock’s fingers squeezed John’s feebly. He looked up, hoping Sherlock wouldn’t notice the tears stinging his eyes, knowing he would.

            A tear was rolling down Sherlock’s cheek. He was smiling.

            “My dear John,” he said, his voice stronger now. “You did not cause my torment; you ended it.” He paused, closing his eyes as he regained his breath. “And for that, my friend … I thank you.”

            Without a word, John stood up and leant forward. Being as gentle as he possibly could, he drew Sherlock into a hug, supporting his friend’s weight. He felt Sherlock freeze, uncertain. Then the thin arms slowly encircled him, too.

 

                                                            The End.


End file.
